


Open for Interpretation

by FreshBrains



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Canon Related, F/F, Frenemies, Friends With Benefits, Hook-Up, POV Beverly, Season/Series 01, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-28
Updated: 2015-06-28
Packaged: 2018-04-06 15:29:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4227093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreshBrains/pseuds/FreshBrains
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Freddie turned around before she got to the bedroom, her robe puddled at her feet, her pale skin all on display for Beverly. She stood in the doorway, unashamed of her nakedness, chin jutted out in defiance. “I know what I’m doing with Abigail Hobbs. Trust me. I won’t screw it up.”</p><p>“I don’t trust you,” Beverly said honestly. “Like, at all.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Open for Interpretation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aphrodite_mine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aphrodite_mine/gifts).



> I hope you enjoy this! I've always loved this pairing, but this is the first chance I've gotten to write them.
> 
> Takes place during season 1. Ah, simpler times, indeed. The M rating is a little high, but I thought T was a little low, so I'm open to suggestion from all readers on that front.

“You’re kind of a fucking asshole, you know that, right?” Beverly kicked off her sneakers, not caring that they scuffed the tacky red-and-gold wallpaper in Freddie’s tacky foyer. She unwound her headphones around her neck and quelled the very serious urge to wrap them around the throat of the woman sitting in the breakfast nook, sipping an espresso.

“How was your run, babe?” Freddie glanced up with a smirk. She raised her cup to her mouth, lips pursed around the rim, and Beverly couldn’t decide if she wanted to slap her most ill-conceived friend with benefits or throw her over her shoulder and bring her back to bed.

Beverly tossed a folded newspaper onto the table and stood over Freddie, arms crossed over her chest. “Read that headline. _Upcoming Book from Lounds To Reveal Story Behind Minnesota Shrike._ ” Wasn’t _that_ a nice surprise at the newsstand that morning? Beverly practically tripped over her feet when she saw Freddie’s bright red hair on the front page of the local news, a sight she preferred only to see mussed up on the pillow next to her.

“Ooh, that sounds nice, doesn’t it?” Freddie eagerly unfolded the paper and smoothed it out on the table with her palms, her bright purple acrylic nails popping against the black and white.

“It sounds like you’re a backstabber,” Beverly said, disgusted with Freddie’s proud little grin. “Look, I know I’m not a psychologist or a social worker or whatever, but you made that kid a promise, Freddie. Now you’re throwing her to the wolves.” Beverly poured herself a cup of coffee from Freddie’s state-of-the-art machine and told herself _that_ was the reason she kept staying over at her place instead of creeping out at three in the morning like a proper hook-up.

“Katz, you’re in the damn FBI. Read between the lines,” Freddie said, voice smooth and unrevealing. “I’m keeping her safe. I made a little announcement about a future publication and named-dropped a very hot-button media story—not to mention a _fantastic_ serial killer name—involving Abigail Hobbs’ father. I’m giving them the wrong scent.” She continued scanning the paper, eyes glittering. “Now we’ll watch them run off into the woods while Abigail and I continue to have private conversations _without_ the media.”

Beverly sat across from Freddie, looking at the other woman carefully. “So you’re still going to tell _her_ story?” Freddie wasn’t as bad as people made her out to be, which pained Beverly to admit. She was smart, witty, brave, and so fucking _charming_ that she got Beverly into bed without so much as giving out a first name before Beverly woke up to find Freddie blogging buck-naked across the room about Charles Manson’s new wife. She was still counting her lucky stars that Price and Zeller hadn’t figured it out yet—she’d _never_ hear the end of it.

And to be honest, Beverly had a stake in a lot of things, but not Abigail Hobbs. She didn’t trust her, never did, not from the moment she and Will started having their hushed little talks in Abigail’s hospital room. Beverly had a stake in Will Graham—they _all_ did. He was a ticking time bomb, and Abigail had a fistful of matches. Beverly wasn’t as concerned about Abigail’s wellbeing as she was about the general wellbeing of the FBI’s golden boy.

Freddie, because she was an asshole, saw right through her. She cocked her head and set down her cup, letting the china clink onto the saucer. “Beverly, dear, are you being _noble_ right now?” She bit her lip, teeth digging into the soft flesh, and Beverly could just barely see a hint of swelling from where she kissed Freddie quiet the night before.

“Shut up,” Beverly muttered, and took a too-hot sip of her coffee. “I’m being a good agent of the law. Law enforcement agent. Whatever.” She didn’t have the heart to admit that she was being selfish—she wasn’t exactly a poster child for self-preservation, but when it came to protecting Will and keeping Freddie from being fucking _murdered_ by possible serial killers, she wasn’t afraid to use the badge to her advantage.

“You’re a crime scene investigator,” Freddie said, lips curling into a devious smile, “ _not_ a white knight.”

“You got that right,” Beverly said with a snort. “It doesn’t mean I’m not going to give your gossiping ass a hard time, Lounds.”

Freddie purred in contentment and stood up, arching her back in a lazy stretch. “I love it when you call me by my last name. It makes me kind of hot.” She winked at Beverly and loosed the knot on her green silk robe, revealing one bare, white shoulder as she walked towards the bedroom.

“Oh my god, you’re the _worst_ ,” Beverly groaned, but followed Freddie down the hallway, unzipping her track jacket. Freddie’s hallways was lined with framed news articles and awards, all featuring Freddie’s proud, determined mug and all sorts of colorful earrings and hairstyles. It never failed to make Beverly roll her eyes.

Freddie turned around before she got to the bedroom, her robe puddled at her feet, her pale skin all on display for Beverly. She stood in the doorway, unashamed of her nakedness, chin jutted out in defiance. “I know what I’m doing with Abigail Hobbs. Trust me. I won’t screw it up.”

“I don’t trust you,” Beverly said honestly. “Like, at all.”

Freddie just shrugged and turned again, striding towards the bed. “Well, if you can’t trust me, you might as well fuck me, Katz.”

Beverly felt bad for half a second until Freddie spread out on her back and crooked a devious finger at Beverly, beckoning her over with a dark smile. Beverly always knew how to interpret the evidence, and at that moment, she had a brilliant redhead waiting for her in bed, a hand dropped between her legs, eyes hooded and secretive, cheeks flushed. Sometimes, she didn’t need to do anything with the evidence besides let it play out in front of her.


End file.
